By Taylor Kaye Nielsen
I’ve lived in Oregon for six years, and I still don’t know how to get to my college or to my favorite restaurant without using google maps. I haven’t been to that part of Riverton since that October, but I still have a turn-by-turn road map to your house etched into my brain. You turn right at the church we once laid in the parking lot of, counting stars. I remember asking you that night if you’d remember this moment if we were to break up, and I remember you laughing and wondering why I couldn’t just be in the moment with you, why to me everything had always been fleeting and permanent all at once, why when we were in your bed falling in love, I was burning the layout of your room into my mind and why even 10 fucking years later I still remember every detail of that god damn brown truck. The same brown fucking truck that sends panic shivers down my spine even today, three states away when it passes me on the highway. The same stretch of highway I took to escape that town, to escape that church parking lot, to escape that room, to escape that bed of yours, that same fucking bed I’m still trapped in when my current boyfriend tries to make love to me, or touch me, or even fucking just sleep next me. That same fucking bed that I’ll never get out of, that same fucking tomb of a bed I’ll be buried in.
“I’m just like all the other wonderful girls in this world, going through hard shit every day. But I’m still here, and I’m still writing, and that is something.”